Climbing Mountains

The last few years I’ve been climbing some mountains. Metaphorical mountains, personal mountains, and a couple actual mountains. 

Sometimes I’ve done these treks voluntarily, sometimes out of necessity, and sometimes I found myself halfway up a life mountain before realizing where the hell I was. At times the summit has been a glorious victory, and other times I have worked so hard to drag my ass up; every step being a mini-feat and having to turn back halfway due to bad weather (aka life’s curveballs or even just the standard mental or emotional obstacles that mark the path of any transformation). 

Most times I have questioned the journey, the purpose, the reason; and it’s only the look-back that comes with clarity. Sometimes the ‘look-back’ takes a few years.

The last (actual) mountain trip I took was to a series of alpine lakes in Central Washington in late September. It was nearing the end of the season, when a lovely, brisk and colorful autumn backpacking trip could turn into a serious snowy and technical endeavor. (Which is all good of course if that’s what you’re after, and more importantly, prepared for: two things I most assuredly wasn’t.) But, the leaves were turning red and orange and the drive to get outdoors was ultra strong after a manic summer of (yet again) not getting outside as much as I had intended and vehemently promised myself at the end of previous year.

The forecast showed a 20% chance of rain and some pretty freezy night temps so I packed a lot of warm clothes. I had been on the Whole 30 leading up, and it would end it after the first night of the three night trip at which point I had lots of delicious carby and cheesy backpacking meals, hallelujah.  

The way up was hard. Body getting used to a heavy pack again (ahem, a good deal heavier than it needed to be), and some pretty serious climbs were made more challenging by a lack of ascent-with-weight training.

Then there was the beautiful and daunting glacier. Apparently in years prior, one could easily just walk right on the glacier up to the pass, but as with most affected by climate change it had shrunk and melted, creating huge side walls, and leaving the path around it a terrifyingly loose, scrambley jaunt with some fairly serious consequences of a misstep. 

But, oh. Incredible views and moonscape lunches and altitude and the feeling of being somewhere completely new and different than your body occupies every other second of existence.

And then the rain came. The 20% chance of rain turned into a 100% downpour with crazy high winds. I learned the tough lesson (for the second time this year) of what it means to be soaked through for hours, with not-the-right-gear, but this time at 7,000 feet with night comin in fast. Yikes. 

Barely got the tent up in the insane wind and a snapped clip, and then for hours upon hours laid in my sleeping bag, working to get warm. Finally, the emergency blanket was broken out and I took my whole sleeping bag burrito inside, which while very warm and toasty, created a ton of condensation on the outside of my (yes, ahem, down) sleeping bag. Whoops. So many errors. 

Waking up the next day, it was snowing, everything was wet, and the sketchy pass that had just been traversed was a no-go for return. Alternative plans were considered. Ten miles the other direction to the religious village that could likely provide food and shelter? Risk the snowy pass with soaking wet clothes, gear, and shoes? 

The best plan seemed to be staying and starting a fire, spending the day drying everything out in order to be able to make the return journey as warm and dry and rested as possible. Fingers crossed that the rain didn’t continue. 

With great relief of not having to hike in wet clothes after being near-hypothermic, the day was dedicated to tending a fire in snow flurries, filtering water, eating food, hanging out with no shoes back and forth to the tent while all the gear and socks and pants and shirts were dried. 

All day I looked at the scary-ass mountains that surrounded the basin with their terrifying glaciers; quick moving deep gray fog and snow bringing up the ol’ pal existential terror of death; the insanely green-grey lakes and little charming mountain streams that froze my hands off while I desperately filtered water as fast as I could. 

It was one of the best days of my life. 

As evening neared, the fog started to lift. The looming mountains which had seemed so formidable became like huge amiable friends. The stars began to blink on and were dazzling in that existential kinda way. The ground was frozen and sparkly. 

I didn’t want to go to bed, even though my nose felt like it was freezing off of my face. 

Thank the gods - the next morning was clear but very, very cold. The drinking water was frozen. (Whoops again.) Everything was a silent, glittering landscape - the tiny alpine trees, the hulking rocks, the low-lying plants. I lingered as long as possible packing up the tent, eating breakfast, being overall fairly giddy, but it was time to go. With that already-nostalgic feeling, I made my way back past the lakes, over the massive rocks, worked carefully around the sadly receding glacier, back down over all the false summits. Through the valley with the larches turning and red low lying bushes, past the mountain streams. Through the glorious meadow, and back into the long forest stretch. 

Such a sense of victory returning to the car; deep happiness and also deep sadness. There were a LOT of mistakes made on that trip, and some dicey things happened. I also knew that nothing like that would ever be repeated. It was a once in a lifetime experience, and, as hesitant as I am to use the word, transcendent. 

Home the next day, planning to unpack and revel and hydrate, I could tell something was wrong. I wasn’t sick, exactly, but my muscles were so sore that it was excruciating to walk. I felt a lethargy that was unknown to me. I was highly disoriented and felt like I was moving through a fog. 

Having medical anxiety, I do whatever I can to avoid the doctor. But, the following morning when I walked outside and saw that I had left the back of my car open with all of my gear inside, I realized that my brain wasn’t quite workin’ right, and I took myself to the hospital. 

Rhabdomyolysis (also known as ‘rhabdo’) is a condition often reserved for extreme athletes where excessive muscle breakdown floods your system with toxins, which can damage the kidneys. It is taken pretty seriously. Mine was a mild case, thankfully, though I shudder to think what a serious case is like given how shitty it was. The dehydration, protein-heavy intake of the first two days as I finished the Whole 30, ascending with SUCH a heavy pack when I hadn’t trained, keeping a much faster pace than I should have, being very, very cold, and a lack of sleep all contributed. 

I was almost totally incapacitated for a week, the only treatment really being rest and hydration. It took a solid ten days for me to kinda return to yoga, be able to take a long walk, work a full day; and a couple weeks to feel more or less normal again. 

There was a cost to the backcountry trip. Was it worth it? Hell yes.

I asked my body to do some really hard stuff and it did it, which I am incredibly grateful for its ability to execute on. I made some fairly egregious backcountry errors, and from that I have learned a LOT; primarily that I don’t know what I don’t know yet. All of that is ok. I am giving myself grace to be a human that is learning and making mistakes, as all humans do. I realize that life can be wildly, dazzlingly beautiful one moment and a wacky shitstorm the next where it feels like everything is crumbling into a pile of crap and lighting itself on fire.

It’s just all part of it. 

Thanks, mountains, for the reminders.